Sixteen
IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING, AN UNHELPFUL VOICE IN MY HEAD SAYS,yes, this is exactly where the real party is. If, of course, you consider the “real party” gently holding your sister for ransom without her knowledge.
I shut down said voice. I shut down my panic next.
Damage-control mode kicks on instantly. My mind promptly spits the list of what needs to happen. Get Kevin out of here. Give McCoy privacy to make the ransom call. Waste no time.
Cocking my hip, I slide into my wedding demeanor easily. “My dad isn’t here, if you’re looking to keep kissing up to him,” I inform Kevin with unforced irritation.
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I know he’s singing with his college group,” he pronounces, continuing with hints of wonder and envy. “He has a very resonant voice.”
The reminder of Dash’s whereabouts is unwelcome, forcing me to remember the competing clocks I’m chasing. Champagne won’t continue forever. I narrow my eyes. “Then what are you doing here?”
Kevin walks past us, admiring the den. Predictable. “I saw all the cool people were gone and knew there was a hotter party to be at,” he explains, no hint of irony in his voice.
I gaze around the room. The GoldenEye poster next to The Matrix one, the dark screens on the walls. The harsh LED lights, no music. No one in here except me, Tom, and a random security guard. This is, in no way, the hotter party.
Kevin’s expectant enthusiasm is undimmed, though. He makes no effort to hide how much he wants to be considered cool. I’d kind of respect his sincerity if it weren’t so obnoxious. It’s not unlike the room itself, I guess. While my dad’s design is cringeworthy, it’s him, not the genteel lord of Rhode Island every other room of the house pretends he is. I’m not sure which is worse.
He never wanted me down here. He didn’t outright say so, which was uncommon reserve on his part. Even so, I just knew. I knew from the suspicious irritation he’d glance my way whenever I entered needing school forms signed or playdate permission. How young can you start feeling like an inconvenience without permanent psychological damage?
It makes our location exceptionally gratifying. While I was going to enjoy hitting him where it hurts no matter what, I’m really going to enjoy doing it from his moneyed man cave.
Unless Kevin Webber screws everything up.
Tom regards the intruder with disdainful curiosity. He says nothing, the silence of one with nothing nice to say.
It’s generous, in a way. Tom is the one person in my crew who’s withstood even more of Kevin Webber than I have. The fact that he’s only glaring now, looking like Mr. Darcy styled for the GQ Men of the Year party, is commendable.
“Oh, hell yeah. Dash has a sick setup,” Kevin says, evidently seeing with different eyes the same details I was just evaluating. He lies down on the bench press. “Want to spot me, bro?” he says to McCoy.
Nerves clench in my chest when he glances our security impersonator’s way, then release. Kevin doesn’t recognize the former Berkshire teacher. Why he isn’t wondering what wedding security is doing here is a mystery to me. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for his oversight.
“You… want to work out right now?” Tom asks. He’s returned to the droll demeanor of my date.
“Could be cool,” Kevin replies. He sits up hastily. “Or whatever. Maybe not. What were you guys doing?”
“Just showing security around the main floor,” I say, improvising fast. “It’s still my house, you know. People shouldn’t be wandering into private rooms.”
Kevin nods, not understanding I mean him.
“Well, we’re heading back to the wedding now,” I say pointedly.
My ushering gets me nowhere. Kevin rises from the bench press and proceeds directly to the shelf of video games. “Come on,” he goads us cheerfully. “Let’s do something fun! Cool-people-only side party!”
I watch him miserably, realizing the immense power of this place over a person like Kevin. If only it weren’t the one room in the house with the perfect logistics for our kidnapping. Why couldn’t Maureen have converted it into her own personal massage room or something? She probably will in, like, six weeks.
I control my frustration. “I’m not partying with you,” I say firmly.
Kevin ignores me. “You haven’t seen my sister, have you?”
In the corner of my vision, I catch Tom and Mr. McCoy exchange a very incriminating look. I would reprimand them for the indiscretion if I could. “No,” I reply, “I haven’t.”
Managing to withdraw himself from his examination of my dad’s PlayStation library, Kevin rounds inquisitively on McCoy.
“Funny,” he says. “I saw you leading her inside.”
Something shifts in the room. I remember when I was young, on the infrequent occasions my dad was left in charge of supervising me, I would end up down here. In hopes of distracting me while he played video games, he showed me how to make houses of cards. Young Olivia would stack geometric structures of queens and kings, clubs and hearts, precariously positioning the addition of each new card while Halo chattered away nearby.
If I wanted to find inspiration for my plans today in formative memories of my childhood, houses of cards would probably make the list. I remember the peril of each new card placed, of watching the paper pyramid in suspense.
It’s how I feel now. Unsure whether everything is about to collapse.
Kevin waits. His expression is expectant. Not the expectation I’m used to on Kevin Webber, either—the zealous hope for someone to like him or agree with him or, say, help him lift weights in the middle of my dad’s wedding. No, he’s… evaluating us.
“I was showing her to the bathroom,” McCoy says. While his gruffness is not quite convincing, I credit him for the logical explanation.
“Nah.” Kevin shakes his head, resuming his perusal of the video game shelf. He looks only half interested, as if none of the contents are the game he wants to play. “She knows where the bathrooms are. We’ve come over for New Year’s parties and stuff.”
I decide to step in, worry weighing in the pit of my stomach. My house of cards is wobbling. “Kevin, let’s go back to the bar. I’m sure we’ll find Amanda there,” I say, my voice sweet like it usually isn’t. Kevin is suggestible, I reassure myself. He’s a joiner. He’ll want to do what I’m proposing.
Instead, he grins, and I realize this is much worse than I thought.
Kevin Webber is onto us. He knows I’m up to something. While I feel certain he doesn’t know what, he suspects enough to use his suspicion as leverage.
I set my mind racing, combing overheard conversations of my dad and Mitchum, the hostage-negotiator show I got very into last year, and other heist research. Leverage for what? If I were in his position, I might extract information, money, or other advantages. I’m not him, however. Way, way not him. What does Kevin Webber want?
The realization hits me with instant certainty.
He’s using what he knows to… make us party with him.
Wow. He’s the worst.
The leading flicker in Kevin’s eyes says he knows we’re on the same page. “Dash has to have a stash nearby,” he offers cheerfully. “Ha. ‘Dash’s stash.’ You guys want to smoke?” When nobody responds, Kevin wanders closer to the stairs. “His private theater is downstairs, right? We could get high and watch Kung Fu Panda.”
In one part of my mind, I’m hoping Kevin never utters the phrase “Dash’s Stash” in the company of my father, who would one hundred percent certainly start franchising cannabis dispensaries under this name. The rest of my concentration is focused on how close Kevin is coming to where we’ve hidden his sister. Houses of cards. Ready to fall. While I stand silent, recalculating, Tom interjects. “I don’t smoke.”
Kevin shrugs. “You could just watch the movie.”
Tom eyes him dismissively. “Not if I don’t have to.”
Unfazed, Kevin nods as if he understands perfectly. “Not a fan of cinema’s greatest franchise,” he comments. “Well, what do you want to watch?”
“Nothing,” Tom replies, clearly trying to end Kevin’s cool-people-only party efforts quickly. To get us out of here.
“Everything’s on streaming,” Kevin presses. “What kind of movies do you like?”
“None.”
Kevin glances up. His gaze is probing. I have the uncomfortable feeling he has improbably changed my crew from kidnappers into hostages. “Huh?” he asks Tom.
“I don’t… like movies,” Tom says, his performance finally flickering. Only my fake wedding date’s dramatic panache renders the line half convincing. He continues, recovering his composure. “I’m incredibly boring. You don’t want to party with me.”
The look Kevin gives Tom startles me. He’s patient, even confident, in permitting the pause to stretch. I don’t know what’s worse, or more surprising—the fact that Kevin Webber knows how to use leverage or the fact that he’s employing it to force people he’s not friends with to get high and watch Kung Fu Panda with him.
Finally, Kevin faces me instead.
“He’s your new boyfriend? I don’t see it,” he says.
I decide I’ve had enough. Outside, with the champagne welcome winding down, I’m certain the Nassoons have knocked out “Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes” and “Love Never Felt So Good.” The clock is ticking. Furthermore, every minute we delay, we run the risk of Amanda getting impatient and wandering upstairs. I need to retake control.
“Kevin, stop acting like we’re friends. You don’t know me. We’re going back to the wedding now,” I order him. Keeping my voice unwavering feels like wrestling metal.
I grab Tom’s arm and pull him with me to the door.
Kevin doesn’t follow.
“The theater is down here. Right?” His emphasis on the final word has intentional edges. He’s pushing us.
I whirl, finding him at the top of the stairs leading down to where we’re holding Amanda captive. Sweat springs into my fingertips. I clench my grip on Tom. In front of my eyes flashes every night I needed to study for calc, or physically ached to watch Downton Abbey with my mom while she dozed, and instead holed up in my room meticulously planning this day.
It’s McCoy who steps in. He grabs Kevin’s elbow. “I’m going to have to ask you to return to the event. No one is allowed in Mr. Owens’s private rooms,” he reprimands Kevin.
Relief rushing over me, I mentally applaud McCoy for his ingenuity. He’s fast on his feet. It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. I’m sure teaching high school students is a battle and a performance every day. With our counterfeit guard positioned in front of Kevin, I feel as if I can finally exhale.
Until Kevin gently yet firmly removes his arm from McCoy’s grasp.
It’s like the first card falling. On rare occasions, the structure will support the displacement.
On most others, collapse is imminent.
Kevin regards McCoy. Then he turns back to meet my eyes.
“You know, everyone thinks I’m stupid because I’m annoying,” he says calmly. “I’m actually just annoying.”
Every card, fluttering down instantly into my design’s destruction.
Without hesitating, Kevin pushes past McCoy and descends the stairs.